Struggling

Having a hard time getting through this thing. Calling the man who demeaned my mother at 2:19 a.m., just to hang up on him if he answers. You can find anyone on the Internet – scary. Still wide-awake. I would say I’m not doing as well as I’d like. It’s a good thing that he doesn’t live around here, because I have an entire carton of eggs, and I’m not feeling enormously stable.

I will say this, God is working in amazing ways. I was shaking like a leaf, cruising through white pages on the web, perusing the State of Nevada employee listing, and zeroing in on my desired target. I was imagining all the things I would cry and say to Alan if I got a chance. I used to think I was tougher and actually, I used to be tougher. I won’t lie. I’ve been in a couple of bar fights, but only one was a guy –sissy. Some guys scream like little girls. Makes me just roll my eyes and wonder where that wimp is now.

Anyhoo, I could not imagine doing anything more than articulating my hurt, pain, loss, upset, anger, and furor at this boss who found joy in deriding my mother. I did not want to hurt him, really. Eggs in the face are not hurtful, unless you’re allergic to the eggs and big boils and welts appear and then your skin starts peeling and oozing off in grotesque strips, like a snake shedding its skin. OK, so I thought of inducing some pain upon this man. I imagined I would get maced. I figured against it, since I am a mother, and no less, a lover of Christ: Must be more dignified these days.

I have met with a torrent of emotions. I am dealing with a torrent of emotions. I don’t imagine I will ever get over these emotions. I will never ever get over losing my mother in this way. She did not just die. Sometimes when I say it aloud, I whisper it, as though it will lighten the load, but it doesn’t. “My mother killed herself.” My mother who knew, held, kissed, and loved on my three children killed herself.

I would say that I am shocked and I am, but not for the reasons you think. I am shocked, because I thought for sure, my mother of all people, knew her worth. How many people relied on that woman? Too many to count. I am shocked, because her worth, her value, her beauty seemed implicitly obvious. How could she negate it all by that final violent act? How?

You see, I’m not at all surprised that she killed herself for the aspect of suicide, because just days before my mother shot herself in the head, I was contemplating it too. I had been contemplating it for a long time. Spoken to no one, but my husband who cried pleadingly through a face of tears for me to feel differently, I could not. I felt the same way my mother did: I felt worthless.

At about the age of ten or eleven I began to have insomnia. My aunt who lived with us at the time slipped me her secret antidote, a saucy little hush-hush way of falling asleep. She told me that when she could not sleep, she would wish dream herself dead, wrists slit – length-wise, not side-to-side, as is done in movies, so that you bleed faster. She would dream herself into a deep sleep when insomnia came.

I was just ten or eleven when I began dreaming myself dead when times were worrisome, and in my home, times were oftentimes worrisome.

Well, the last three years for Rick and I have been worrisome. That’s when I began dreaming myself dead to fall asleep again. Can I tell you the problem with this? It is the spiritual equivalent of laying out your best towels, putting out the better welcome mat, and opening the door for some horrifying spiritual warfare: Satan has had a stronghold on me and it was getting eerily frightening.

A week before my mother killed herself, I took a stool into the closet, stood on it, and rummaged across the top of Rick’s side of the closet. Fingering under pillows and blankets, I tried to find the handgun. It was nowhere. Frustrated, but not deterred, I went into the office closet where I looked for somewhere he may have hidden it. Finally frustrated, I gave up knowing that it was just a matter of time.

Then, the Wednesday before my mother killed herself, I fasted and prayed. God gave me a vision. He was pulling me over an obstacle, not as big as a boulder, but more like a mound, a speed bump. I could have gotten over it myself, but refused. In my vision of what he was doing with me, my feet were planted stubbornly in the dirt, unmoving, but effortlessly, he dragged me over the mound of dirt and seemed to dust me off.

The next day, Friday, I lay in bed looking at the Bible on my nightstand. I remember thinking that very moment with dread in my heart that suicide would never seem like an act of selfishness, but rather, an act of bravery. I really believed that Rick and my children would be better without me. I believed it in my heart – to my core.

I rallied as best I could. I did not eat. I was miserable, more miserable than I’d been in weeks. The dread that cast a cloud on me was tangible. Finally, I decided that I would work out. I dressed and tried, but then the phone rang. It was Rick. I will never forget his words, “Michelle, something really awful has happened.” He was crying or out of breath, I was trying to figure out.

“Really?” “Yeah,” he was somber as a stone. “How bad?” I asked. “Bad.” “Rick, how bad?” Finally, he said, “Michelle, your mom is dead. She shot herself in the head.” I do not remember everything after that. I do not remember standing. I do not remember how many times I screamed “No!” I do not remember hearing anything else from Rick. I do not remember opening the front door, but I remember running across the front lawn to my neighbors. I must have told the kids to stay, because they did not follow. I remember having thrown the phone just before I ran. I remember falling on her porch, being on my knees and sobbing.

Finally another neighbor came and trying to console me. I was inconsolable. I then tried to regain my composure, because when I looked back at my own home, I saw three faces peering out the big glass window at me. I told the neighbor I was all right and went back to the house.

I sat on the porch and talked to Rick and sobbed. When I finally went back into the house, my poor children were dismayed, to say the least. When they asked me what was wrong, I said, “Nothing.” I could not tell them. Let them have one more day thinking that everything is normal, I thought: Let them be happy.

I finally told them, hours later that Grandma had died. No details. Some details will never be disclosed. They don’t need to be. All they needed to know was that their Grandma was dead. Sophie was suddenly tired and wanted to go to bed. As we tucked her in, she began to cry, “What will I do without my Grandma?” Silver streams glistened down her smooth, porcelain cheeks.

Austin put his handsome face into his big boy hands and cried. Austin is never sad. It broke my heart. And, Chloe, the one who had a strange intense connection to my mother let tears flow like streams. “I dreamt Grandma died last night,” she said. We held and comforted our children, giving them whatever, and as much as they needed. It was no longer about me, but entirely about them. How had I ever imagined doing something that would hurt them even more? What was wrong with me?

They slept on our bedroom floor in mounds of blankets. As we all drifted off to sleep, I realized that I could not get enough of them. In dark purple night I said, “Rick, I know we don’t usually sleep all touchy, but tonight I need touchy. I need to know you’re there.” He wrapped me in his arms and I tried to sleep.

Sleep did not come. I finally stopped struggling at 2 a.m. I texted some of my friends of my heartbreak, so that when they awoke in the morning, they would know I needed them. Suddenly there was the chime of a text coming back to me, but who’s awake at 2 a.m.? I’ll tell you who, a fireman’s wife!

Kristen texted back wanting to know if I was awake: I texted, “yes.” She called. Telling her my heartbreak until my heart could break no more I said, “Kris, I can’t talk about this anymore. Please talk. Say anything. I want to know something else.” Kristen asked me what time Rick was getting up, and then, she began talking. She talked to me from 2 a.m. until 6 a.m. That is a friend. She was my angel that night.

That entire day I was broken, but in such a different way. It was as though I had fought something intense and won. I floated through that day, as we drove hours to get to my father. Suddenly, the things that had been a fog of confusion about suicide, about its definitive wrongness were as clear as crystal. I felt as though I had emerged from some other person. Who was that girl who thought that way? Who was she? Where did she come from? Those thoughts were as foreign to me suddenly, as speaking Russian. How did I justify it? I cannot even comprehend.

Throughout this pain, I have still been awake all night. I am awake right now and it’s 3:31 in the morning. I have cried so hard my eyes hurt. My face has hurt. I have thought so intensely about what my mother did, I have vomited. I don’t know how loudly I screamed, but my throat was hoarse.

What I know for sure is that God was fighting for my life. God has won. When my mother took her own life, she saved mine, because I could not have seen how painful, how strange, how sad, how shortsighted, how selfish suicide is.

Since my mother’s death, Satan has poked at me, trying to call me back out into a mud-slinging contest. I win, though, because my God has already overcome the grave. I have called Satan some dandy names in the last few weeks, and he has told me through hissing lies that I am the reason my mother killed herself; “Do not feel guilty,” he hissed. “Do not feel guilty, though your relationship is not what it should have been. Everyone knows…By the way, what was your relationship with your mother, Michelle?” The hissing still resounds. “Hiss at someone else who believes your lies!” I have yelled. I’m pretty sure Rick thinks I’m going crazy. Maybe he’s right.

The same lies that killed my mother seek to devour me. The only thing I want to be known for when I am long gone is that I was strong. Nothing else will matter to me, since strength will keep me far from such devouring lies, people, words, beliefs, and repetitive patterns. The person who has whispered in a darkened corner that it is all my fault would be the same person to deny it all. I call him out right here and now, because in his pathetic weakness, I am made strong through my Lord, Jesus Christ. Go pick on someone weaker, someone who does not have the strength of the Living God. I am done with you.

All along, I have been consciously trying to break patterns of generational sin, those things I did not want to hand to my children. I cast out alcohol. I cast off medicinal addictions, but I could not see that my dance with these dream-to-death images were letting in a pattern of self harm that was just what I’d been trying desperately to keep out of my home. Who was I kidding? A little bit leads to a lot: Satan does not take just a little. He wants the whole thing. He was coming for it.

I do not know how or why I was spared. I cannot judge my mother, though I have been angry with her. Really, I’m just angry she didn’t understand her worth, but how often do we forget what we are worth, and that “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life” (John 3:16). When I woke this morning that simple verse, the first one every Christian learns was on my lips. It is as though God is starting anew with me, teaching me the beginning of what I need to know. Girding up the foundation that got shaky when I gave into my sin of self-hate.

All I know is that when the God who created every star, every blade of grass, and knows the number of every hair on your head is willing to die for you, you are valuable, you have worth, no matter what you or anyone else thinks – no matter what you think. Because Christ is in us, we are bigger than our problems, bigger than this faulty world. We are worth more than we know when God intervenes on our behalf, so that we can live eternally with Him.

Dumped

I have to tell you this story. Chloe, our eleven year old, was taking a spelling test yesterday. When I gave her a word she said, “Is that one word, or two?” I laughed, because I knew that she was kidding. Then, she recalled a story from third grade. You have to know the background to understand: She was in a third grade class of just three kids. We home school, but the kids were going to an enrichment class. This was the first time the school offered a third grade class, and attendance was low. Chloe is not comfortable with big expansive lulls in quiet, so while the teacher was administering a test about the extensive study they had just done on volcanoes, she gave the three children the word “volcano,” to write. That’s when Chloe asked her, as she did to me yesterday, “Is that one word, or two?” She said the teacher stopped dead in her tracks, turned to her in complete and utter disbelief and said, “Oh, come on! You should really know this by now!” I love that story. It is so like Chloe to fill up the air with her beautiful voice, just to pad the silence so no one feels uncomfortable.

Well, I want to write my blog about being dumped. Have you ever been dumped? I know it’s a weird thing to write about, since I’ve been happily married for sixteen blissful years, but being dumped one time in particular has left a sting that affects me still. I have to be honest, I’m a pretty sensible person. The way I view being dumped, or dumping someone is generally very logical: Why would you ever want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you?

Well, this one time I fell in love hard. In fact, it was like no other love I’ve ever experienced, still. (I hope Rick doesn’t get jealous). Upon waking up and upon drifting off to sleep, I would have His name on my lips, and constantly throughout the day, I would say almost to myself, “I love you,” as if He could hear. You see, if He were around, I would have wanted Him to hear the whispers of my love for Him.

I would even drift off to sleep, purposely intent on dreaming about eventually living in His house. He had told me once that He would prepare a room in his house, just for me. I imagined that it would be filled with things that I loved; an art easel, a writing table, big billowy white curtains, tall hovering redwood tress right outside an opened window, and maybe even a view of the ocean. I dreamt that this room would be my place to worship Him even more.

As time went on, I memorized His letters to me. I memorized every nuance of our time together, and when He brought me gifts, gifts beyond my wildest dreams, I was giddy. He actually introduced Rick and I. And, when I had miscarried the sixth time, He helped me out, comforting me when words would no longer come from my mouth when I tried to talk to Him about it. In fact, I will never forget the time that Rick and I kneeled on the side of our bed to implore Him for Sophie, that last and ninth pregnancy: Every time I opened my mouth to configure words, any words to explain the pain in my heart, or the deep longing I had for this unknown child, only sobs came out. Then, He brought us Sophia – her name means “wisdom,” which is a gift He had given me that ninth and last pregnancy.

Well, as time went on, I got used to Him. My love did not die for Him, but it did not strengthen either. I let other things take up His space and instead of drifting off to sleep with His name on my lips, my mind drifted off to sleep with worry and dread of the coming days. I was so overwhelmed that I could barely think of Him at all. And, when I ceased to get the things I wanted, I was convinced He’d forgotten all about me, because I did not see His presence and I never heard His voice, even when I called.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know who dumped who, but I have my guesses. I know what people mean when they say they just drifted apart, something I never thought possible before. I have begged Him to return. I have felt His absence and nothing has been good since He’s been gone. Really, it’s been three long years of struggling without Him. I keep calling Him, expecting Him to answer any day. Pathetically, I have remnants of His love letters all over my house, taped to a window, posted to a door. They sting my heart.

And, I know it might seem kind of creepy, but we even go to His house and hang out sometimes. You’d think all this time spent in His house, I’d see Him, but strangely enough, I don’t. I still hear from our mutual friends, though. Regardless of what they really think, they are so kind, and though they might not really believe it themselves, they keep telling me that He’ll come back. They are cheering for me, though I know some aren’t. You see, I know it’s sinful human nature for some to give into the secret delight when someone else is suffering, someone they thought of more as a rival than a friend. That’s why “a friend loves at all times” (Proverbs 17:17), and some just gloat over your failures.

Recently I met someone, a woman who didn’t know me at all. In this brief interaction she pummeled me with self-righteous advice. Quite a bit younger than me, she told me that she had a lot of experience, “probably more than most,” and she knew that the only answer to anything is prayer. In this interaction, she assumed that if I had problems I wasn’t praying – how little she knew of me. Our interaction was brief, because every time I started to talk, she shut me down with, “Pray, pray, pray.” She literally interrupted me several times and cut me off with her sing-songy advice: “Pray, pray, pray!” As I excused myself, I hoped that “Pray, pray, pray” would always work out for her, because if it ever stopped working, she might feel the way I did. She might begin to wonder what she’s done wrong.

She might wonder what sin she’s done, maybe without even knowing, that continually keeps her God away. She might envision that like a lit citronella candle that keeps away mosquitoes at night, her sin has wafted into the nostrils of her God to keep Him at bay for three long years. By the way, I have prayed. I have had others, much godlier than me, pray. I have fasted. I have been anointed with oil and prayed over. I have sought Godly counsel. I have repented. I have introspectively examined myself until I am blue in the face. I have prayed scriptures. I have memorized scriptures. I have cried from the depths of my heart to my omniscient, omnipotent God, but sometimes it’s not about what we do. Sometimes, most often, it’s not about us at all.

I love that my friends, those not excited about my dismal spiral downward, pray for me, and continue to heap prayers upward to heaven with arms jutted skyward, grasping for answers and reprieve for our family.

Yesterday, I read the story of Joseph to my second grade class. You know what I loved about that story that I’d never noticed before? When Joseph was brought from the dungeon to interpret Pharaoh’s dream, he interpreted it quickly and the Pharaoh accepted it as fact, and immediately he elevated Joseph to a place of power within the palace. The part I find striking is that everyone involved would have to wait seven good years before seeing seven difficult years of famine to know if Joseph was right. Yes, Pharaoh, a non-believer of Joseph’s God, had to wait seven years to see if Joseph’s interpretation of the dream was accurate, but he empowered Joseph to his second-in-command anyway.

Can you imagine waiting for seven years to see if your decision was a right one? What if Joseph was a swindler? What if he had used the Pharaoh’s paranoia and superstition to manipulate his way into the palace and into power? Well, Rick and I did not have to wait seven years to find that we had been swindled in our business deal. We did not have seven good years. We barely had one good year and though I love God, I don’t know think I could patiently wait for seven years to find out anything, and yet, that’s the funny thing, because I am. Who can know if this is the first three years in a string of what will eventually be seven years?

I have said jokingly before that I am not a long sufferer. Well, in hindsight, I have found that I am. After nine miscarriages in ten years, we finally capped off our family with our little Sophie. And, there are other things for which I’ve waited what seemed like forever to be remedied, with weeks and months turning into years. Much to my dismay, I am a long sufferer. I don’t like it, but it’s the deal.

I feel very much like someone God has dumped. Dumped into the bottom of a cistern sold as a slave, I am wondering over the Sinai Peninsula to an unknown land. I am tired of the terrain and don’t know the language. I have a foreboding feeling that this treacherous journey will never end. Rubbing my backside still from the abrupt fall, I know, in my heart, that God is still in control.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on
your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and
he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:4-6)

The New Me - Kitties and Puppy Dogs

Wow, I have really offended a couple of people with that one blog, “One Generation Away From a Tent.” You know, that blog was just MY opinion, thus this is MY blog – MY blog. I don’t want to be selfish, but really, I’m not sharing MY blog, though you can comment on a blog, and if it doesn’t mention anything about “death,” or “torture,” as one did, I’ll probably moderate it so that it’s posted.

I won’t lie or exaggerate the responses, since I actually got more positive responses to that blog than I did negative. I think sometimes, it is my tendency to focus on the negative, especially when it comes from one person, in particular, who I thought knew me better than to attack my character.

Anyhoo, having offended just a couple of people, I have decided to turn over a new leaf. I am going to be sweeter, more demure, and way less caustic and opinionated. No, no, no more opinions, because I’m a Christian, and I guess some people don’t think Christians should have particularly political opinions, or voice them. Though that scares me since it seems to say that only non-Christians should voice their opinions, I don’t want to offend anyone, so I’m just going to please everyone, regardless of what I think, feel, or what my past experiences have led me to conclude.

I will even ignore -- forget if possible -- my parents and grandparents struggles, since in remembering them, I have been offensively honoring their misdeeds: You know to please everyone, I’ll opt to throw the baby out with the bath water, since they made mistakes. Who needs them? They’re just family. So, in my best effort to please EVERYONE, let’s get on with the new me.

For this momentous occasion, I’ve written a poem. I hope you like it.

I like kitties and puppy dogs
I like chocolate and croaking frogs
I like raindrops and skipping rocks
I like singing and fresh warm socks

I like children who hula hoop
And mint chip ice-cream in big round scoops
I like caramel-corn and rain
I like poems and sweet refrains

I like talking to all sorts of folks
And tickling my children with gentle pokes
I like saying what I like
I wish I could ride a bike

I’d ride it far, I’d ride it near
I wouldn’t tell anyone my fear
Of a state too big and strong
That makes 5 year olds sing their songs

All about the main guy in charge
While the government gets large
On the backs of you and me
And tries to eliminate the free

And some of our constitutional rights
Taking away the right to fight
So, shut your mouth stupid,
Ignorant girl, before I shame you in front of the world…

Darn it! Did I just write that? Ugh, I’m really not very good at this. I can see right now it’s going to take some work. OK, let me catch my breath. What I meant to say is that I like ponies too, and sometimes when the kids aren’t around I even watch “Spongebob” by myself. I am pretty dopey, not a coherent thought in my little, pea brain. I mean I am a girl for crying out loud, right? I should really be thinking of fake nails and shiny pink lip-gloss.

Wouldn’t we all be better off if people like me never expressed their opinions, because even though I confess over and over I’m as faulty as can be, a person who sins all the time, clearly the big thoughts, the big ideas should be left to the perfect people who never sin, never offend anyone? I’m really caught here in between a rock and hard place: By saying I’m a Christian, I’m apparently saying I’m perfect, though I’m told, Biblically, that I’m a sinner, which I truly believe to be the case. Then, if as a Christian I have political opinions, I am apparently convoluting the message of Christ. Hmm, why did God give us thoughts? Still struggling with that one.

Then, I guess there’s some school of thought that says if you’re a Christian, you can’t be politically minded. I know Jesus said, "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's,” which seems to clearly draw the line between what God deserves and what our government deserves. If “everything in heaven and earth is [Gods],” and “[He is] exalted as head over all,” and “the ruler of all things” (1 Chronicles 29: 11b – 12), then how, or why is the government allowed to compete with what surely the Creator of heaven and earth would view as inalienable human rights? I guess that’s the sticking point: Who, on earth, determines what are “inalienable rights?” I think much of that could be found in scripture, but surely the answer isn’t to be silent, for fear of being wrong or offensive: Isn’t that what prayer and discernment of the Holy Spirit is for?

I also think Paul would have something to say to people who tell other Christians to be silent. Paul was imprisoned when he said in Ephesians 6:19-21, “Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. “ Aren’t we all to be Christ’s ambassadors? (2 Corinthians 5:20). Can you imagine telling Paul to be silent? Surely he offended the government of his time, or he would not have been imprisoned, right? If he were non-offensive to the government, breaking no laws, not speaking out against the governing authorities, than why would they imprison him? Couldn’t the Romans have just played Paul off as a crazy, fanatical follower of Christ, if he had merely been preaching the gospel, had it not disrupted the governing authorities? Had he just been silent, he could have met with a holy huddle of fellow believers and safely and snugly slept in his own bed, rather than on the hard stone floor of a jail cell.

Can I just say this? I am blogging, as an imperfect Christian who still thinks and has opinions about political policies, and I am still trying to be the best Christian I can be everyday. For faulty people like me, I like this verse: “Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (Phillipians 3:13 – 15).

OK, so with that said, let me try this thing again. This time, nice, nice, nice – happy, happy, happy…Here goes.

I like mochas on a cold winter night
When we’re all tucked in snuggly tight
I like Christmas on a snowy day
And squirrels when they’re outside at play

I like salads and apple pies
And a dog who always nips at flies
I like riding in fast cars
But I’m not too fond of certain czars

Who don’t believe that “If a man does not work, he shall not eat;”
They’d rather create an impoverished need
Of lazy people to sit at home
While they live on government funded loans

Where do you think that money’s from?
It depletes from others to give to some
Socialism and communist
Reminds me of oozy boils and cysts

Now they’re lighting up the Empire State
To warn us all of our dismal fate
Red and yellow, for blood and fear
I got off course…uh, let’s have a beer?

Ah, this is really hard when anyone tells you what to say
Or to think, and then go away
Putting it all on hater’s labels
I’m more apt to believe in fables

Than to buy that I’m entirely wrong
For my opinions – my bloggy song
I cannot be silent, nor do I want to be
Because I love opinions and speech that’s free

OK, I give up! I am not very good at this complacent and non-opinionated thing. If only I were enrolled in Kindergarten right now in Florida. I could learn what I’m supposed to think, put it in a catchy song, and get with the program!

Holy Spirit Working Overtime

Oh, another day, another....day. I keep trying to make some bread I made once that was delish, but now, I cannot for the life of me figure out that same accidental recipe, and every time I try, we end up with disgusto bread. Even the kids won't eat it, and they think everything is good, especially when it's slathered in honey or gooey jam. This taste like flour, and regardless of how flour is the key to many good things, on its own is pretty disgusting. How many kids have stuck their fingers into a bag of flour to taste - maybe behind their mother's backs - to find that their mother was right when she said, "Don't eat that, it doesn't taste good."

Well, today I got the angriest blog comment in response to my last blog about racism. Actually, I thought it was amusing. OK, I will admit that initially I thought, "Who is this fool who commented so angrily to my blog? I mean, get your own blog, if you can come up with any unique rantings at how completely ignorant and awful all of us Christians are, but good luck with that, because I think they've all been redundantly exhausted to infinity and beyond." I mean, I'm guessing he didn't get through all the paragraphs of my last blog, since essentially, his angry quip became a charactcature of paragraph four, but at least he didn't spell anything wrong, well except for the word, "possible," and it wasn't as much a misspelling, as it lacked the right suffix. (Here's a hint: It should have been "possibly," but he called me ignorant, so he probably didn't think I'd notice).

Anyhoo, when I came in off the ledge from reading his expressed desires of what he'd have liked "the Romans" to have done to all the Christians, I liked this guy. I mean, I realize that he hates me, or at least he hates his limited knowledge of me, but at least he's not lukewarm! He wouldn't want me to say this because some Christian somewhere has stepped on his toes a few times, or so it seems, but Jesus (Our Lord and Savior whom my new blog friend called, "a petty thief") spoke vehemently against being "lukewarm." Jesus said, "So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth" (Revelation 3:16).

My new friend also kept referencing the Romans: I know that, per my new friend, I appear to be ignorant (maybe he's bought into stereotypes of dumb blonds, or Christians who rely solely on blind faith), but didn't the Romans fall? I feel like I'm pointing out someone's exposed slip, you know, like with that saying, "It's raining in the north, but it's snowing in the south." Have you ever heard of that saying? It's the thing that women are supposed to say to each other to point out, but not too overtly, that a woman's dress or skirt slip is showing beneath the hem.

Anyway, it is my understanding that the Romans are no longer in existence, as "The Romans," per se. I mean, surely there are people who are of Roman descent, but really when you make an adulating comment regarding the Romans, isn't it sort of like addressing the people of Atlantis, or Pompeii? It's OK though, because sometimes that's how I feel about disco - "Long Live Disco!"

I am really not trying to upset my new blog buddy, I'm just pointing out a few strange idiosyncrasies of his post. By the way, I didn't post his comment, because such anger is frankly uncomfortable for everyone. (Sorry, John, but it's not like you expected this "ignorant, narrow-minded" Christian to print that. Really, I'm loaded down with that sort of thing just listening to "The View"), and it's my prerogative, since it's my blog.

What I was getting at, before I addressed John directly, was that to my surprise my best friend in the whole world (John, you're not going to like this), the Holy Spirit did this amazing thing inside me, and that's why beyond my human upset and reaction of the flesh, I can seriously love John through the Holy Spirit - wherever John is on this big blue ball spinning around in the universe.

John, as a Christian, I am sorry for whomever has offended you in the name of Christ. I'm not kidding. I'm sorry if that offensive Christian is me. I am sorry you have opted to hold onto that anger, not giving it over to God. I am sorry that you think everyone who thinks differently than you is "ignorant." And, John, I hope that the next time you run into a Christian, whether on-line, or in the line at the grocery store, you remember that there is someone else here on the globe that is praying for this guy John, who the good Lord put in front of me. You think I'm kidding, or being sarcastic, I'm not. I don't know you. I don't know your trials, but I know that God's ways are not accidental.

Seriously, if the overworked Holy Spirit who dwells within me wasn't at the reigns of this wild horse, I'd be running head-long toward a cliff before I took out a few angry people named John along the way, dragging them under the dust of my pounding hooves. See, most of time, when the Holy Spirit isn't working painfully hard to reign me in, I am no different than John. Ironic that John is the name of the last living disciple. Does anyone else see the irony? Maybe not, probably least of all, John. While I'm sure there were lots of people named John prior to the birth of John the Disciple, John was considered the "beloved disciple" - the most loved by Jesus.

Though John may come back to me with a fury, I want to let him know that Jesus loves him. Just like the prodigal son who despised his father enough to demand his inheritance even prior to his father's death - a true insult in its time - that earthly father RAN to greet his broken son when he returned. Guess what, John? You can wish all day long that Jesus' death had been more painful, like you stated in your venomous comment to me. I think you achieve that goal every time you wish such a thing on your Heavenly Father, just like the prodigal son hoped for his father's premature death. All I know is that He is waiting for you, arms wide open to receive you, should you ever be that broken. As for me, I accept you anyway, because I've been where you are: I am nothing more than a little jagged, imperfect reflection of His perfect, holy, complete, and wonderful love - a love that makes us better than when we are left to our own.

One Generation Away From a Tent

OK, last week I posted on my Facebook page my upset about Obama canceling the National Day of Prayer, and the offensive timing of the newly instituted Islamic Day of Prayer on Capitol Hill. With that, I have had a great epiphany: Do not, through guilt or any other cajoling, allow anyone you don't know relatively well into your slew of Facebook friends, and do not speak out against a regime wherein anyone has immortalized them in songs taught to Kindergartners, or emblazoned them across Hanes Beefy-T's in a very adulating, idolizing way.

See, I just feel that I am too jaded for that sort of adulation, but some are clearly not, and though I voted for George Bush in previous elections, I would never even imagine myself wearing a shirt with his multi-colored image silk-screened on it. I might be apt to wear my children's faces on a t-shirt, but anyone else would seem ridiculous to me. In fact, I've said for years - YEARS prior to ever knowing of Barack Hussein Obama, that if ever a future president came up with chanty songs, or big Kim-Yong il posters, I'd be the first to freak out at the mere whisper of such dictator-type love. Well, I'm just saying, I said that for years - years upon years, and nothing has changed. I am freaking out, because now when I mention that I don't like policy change, guess what? I'm a racist.

That's what one guy called me on my Facebook. I have since de-friended him. I mean, I voted for George Bush. How many people hate THAT man? I live in California, so if I walked into the busiest mall, or into a packed stadium and threw a stone into a crowd, every single time I would hit a George Bush hater: Everyone hates George Bush, and they don't just dislike him with a dullish passivity, they despise him. They wish him death, illness, and meanness the likes I've never seen before. They wish ill upon his family, his children, and his wife. When it appeared that Dick Cheney had a scare of cancer, there were people saying they wished he'd die, and not just die, but suffer and die!

What kills me is that it was open season on Bush and his administration. Unleashed hatred due to mere disagreement from liberals to conservatives is a protected sport, but disagreements voiced from conservatives to liberals is now deemed racist. I don't think anyone can know how offensive I find that claim.

I mean, it's important to be clear I don't hate Obama for the mere sport of it, or because it impresses my fellow conservative friends, or because it's expected of conservatives. I don't like the majority of Obama's policies, which I expect would have been the same outcome with any number of Democratic candidates.

Can I tell you why the racist thing bothers me so? It's because that while I know statistically I'm supposed to be in the majority, I've never felt that. Scoff if you want, but you have to know just a few things that define me to understand that statement. Just like any person who has been treated like a minority at any juncture in their life, the things that define me go back a generation or two.

I can think of no better place to start than with my paternal grandparents: They were key to my upbringing. First of all, all I can say for all four of my grandparents is that they were fierce. They faced challenges that would emotionally paralyze any person nowadays, but instead, it made them profoundly strong.

With my paternal grandparents, they came to California on the prompting of the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. I'm pretty sure that would be more profound if kids were encouraged to read about it nowadays in John Steinbeck's, "The Grapes of Wrath," but at our local community college, the required reading for English 101B are materials pertaining to Arab Studies. So, when I say that my grandparents arrived in California with little more than a broken down car, no one in current day California gives that any merit or consideration of what that means. In fact, there is this profound ignorance that anyone in the United States has ever faced difficulty, though history, if people knew it, conveys such a different picture.

When my grandparents arrived in the San Joaquin Valley, they worked in the fields. They worked in the fields picking anything from apricots to prunes. They were migrant farm workers. They were the people given the lowliest jobs, and mistreated as the people taking all the jobs away from the locals (remind you of anyone?). Being pregnant, my grandmother gave birth to my aunt in a tent in the San Joaquin Valley. Then, my uncle was born and delivered by a drunken and impaired doctor who tugged at his poor breach body until he was permanently handicapped. They drove hours to have my uncle treated at the Oakland Children's Hospital. Sometimes, they would have to leave him there alone for days without visits.

When my father was born, my young teenage aunt cared for them all in a drying shed that a land owner had given them to live in. My dad told me that my grandfather pulled two sheds together to make one larger one for their makeshift home. They still had a dirt floor, but they were thrilled to have a larger place to live. My 64 year old father did not have running water in his house until he was in high school, and he has yet to be offered free college scholarships, free housing, or free anything. My dad is probably the hardest worker I've ever known, and he is still working a very physically challenging job today.

As for my maternal grandparents, they had equally trying lives. My grandfather said that he was so poor that when he lived in Arkansas, his parents could not afford shoes for he and his sisters. For fun, boys he went to school with would drive their bicycles close to his feet to make him scurry and hop around. As a gift for his youngest five year old sister, he brought her a stray cat he'd found one day. That cat had diphtheria and it killed his sister. Suffering from severe and potentially deadly asthma attacks, his parents moved their entire family from Arkansas to Idaho in hopes that the change in weather would encourage his health problems. They too, worked as farmers.

My maternal grandmother had my mother at eighteen by my grandfather, a man who was not her husband. In a small, backwards town in Idaho, she was judged and ostracized. Her own family would not speak to her. Rather than give up my mother, as many encouraged her to do, she kept my mother, worked hard and even bought a small house for the two of them.

When I went to college an unsuspecting classmate asked me where my parents went to college. When I told him that they had never been to college, he prodded, wanting to know more. When he learned that I was the first in my family to go to college, he told me in a clinical, examining way, "Really, you shouldn't even be here." After that, he let me know every time we had required study units together that I was beneath him, intellectually, and in every other aspect, as well.

Even now, I will not concede that I am immune to such judgment. Now, it comes in different forms, but in an earlier blog about where I grew up, I know this ridiculous attempt to pre-judge me exist. Let's face it, the world lives on stereotypes and ill-based judgment calls.

When a woman moved into our neighborhood a few years ago, I went over to meet her. In the first few moments of our meeting, she told me that I would probably not understand her, because her parents still lived in San Joaquin Valley and had been migrant farm workers. Having found a commonality, I exclaimed, "So was my dad!" She looked at me in disbelief. I explained that my family had come here from Oklahoma, and my dad had worked his youth in the fields picking prunes, cotton, walnuts, and apricots. It was as though she never heard a word I said, because there was this strange contradiction in terms: This blond, blue-eyed woman could not be the same as her, and yet, our backgrounds were abundantly similar.

Look, I'm not saying that I know what it is to be black, or Hispanic, or any other nationality, but American. I do, however, know what it is to have someone judge me based on the color of my skin. Being white and blond, I assure you people make plenty of their own assumptions. I also know what it is to be judged based on someone's false assumption of where they think I came from, or what privileges they think I've received. Because of that, I will never be comfortable with being tagged with the non-illustrious accusation of being a racist.

I would even assert that I have a more diverse group of friends and acquaintances than anyone who casually accuses others of being a racist. It's not differences that bother me, it's the intolerance of differences, even the loss of civility among friends when you disagree that profoundly bothers me. I can, not just be around, but enjoy people who have vehemently differing views than me, and I have never felt the compulsion of calling them names. Also, I have gay friends, and frankly, I am maybe as surprised of them being nice to me, as they are of this devoutly Christian woman being nice to them.

Shutting someone down from their opinions and views, by calling them a derogatory name is, to me, shameful. It is a bizarre attempt to stifle individual freedom and thought, and really, I find it frightening. I'm all for learning and embracing our differences, until it becomes an overly aggressive bear hug that seems more like an attempt to suffocate me until I pass out.

Luke 10:27
'Love your neighbor as yourself.'

Sixteenth Wedding Anniversary

Last Friday Rick and I celebrated sixteen years of marriage - sixteen years! When I was younger, I used to think that sixteen years was a long time. I used to think, I'll never be old enough to put sixteen years behind me, and remember it. Well, I guess I was wrong. As early as last year, I remember thinking that our wedding seemed like it had just happened, like it was just yesterday. I think since we've been through such a difficult year, it seems like our wedding happened ages ago. Now it's like a historical event you read about in a big, thick, dusty book. There's a line in a Third Day song that says something to the affect of, "forever's just as far as yesterday;" Well, that's how I feel.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that our anniversary, our love, or our commitment to one another is diminished in any way, because of the difficulty we've been through; In fact, maybe it's just the opposite. Honestly, I think we've hit a milestone in our marriage. It's as though we've just come out of the smooth sandy honeymoon stage of our marriage, and we've hit bedrock - the solid foundation.

I think every marriage needs to go through that, in order to stabilize, be strong and learn to weather storms. I remember thinking and saying the entire ten years we struggled through miscarriages that if we hadn't gone through those hard times, maybe we wouldn't have a greater appreciation of the good times. I think that still, and maybe even more greatly as we continue to struggle through one of the hardest times our marriage has ever been through.

Can I tell you a story, because I LOVE amusing stories - it's what I live for! On the night of our anniversary, we went out to dinner. We went to Aqui's, a local Cal-Mex restaurant. Because it had been a long day of home-schooling, we didn't even get there until after 9pm. Getting a table far away from everyone, it looked like it could be a quiet, intimate dinner, but God always gives us just a little more than we bargain for.

We sat down at the quiet table, and right as we sat down came another couple sitting right behind us near the door. They were young. I would have assumed they were on their first date. I barely noticed what they looked like, but just their body language would intimate that they were not entirely comfortable with each other.

I would say that at this point in our marriage, sometimes it is enough to simply be together, and after hours and hours of home-schooling, that was about all we could muster on this night. It wasn't long that through our quiet we could hear the excited discussion that erupted behind us.

"I scored really high on my SAT's," said the young man.

"Really, how high?" said the gentle, soft voice of the young woman.

"Really high, like 800."

I laughed to myself, shared with Rick what he hadn't heard, and said, "That's not that high. I think I'd keep that to myself."

"Oh," the boy corrected himself, "Yeah, I meant 1600." The young man was really loud and seemingly got louder as he spoke. It would have been difficult not to hear him.

"Wow, he's suddenly doubly smarter than he was just two seconds ago," I said, "with a perfect score now. Amazing!"

The young woman must have told him her SAT scores, but her voice was soft and you could not hear her.

Then, he began, "I'm really smart."

"Ugh," I said to Rick, and we both laughed. "Don't you disqualify yourself from all intellectual conversations when you have to TELL someone else how smart you are?"

"Yeah," Rick said. "You hope it's obvious, so you don't have to tell everyone."

The young man continued, "I don't need a high school diploma. None of that matters. All of those grades are disqualified after so much time."

The young couple was behind me, and I hadn't gotten a close look, so I asked Rick in a whisper, "How old are these two?"

He peeked around me to see better, "Mid to late twenties."

"Weird," I said. "I wonder why he's holding onto high school and SATs?" Rick shrugged.

Then, the soft, timid voice that had throughout been entirely quiet got loud; "Are you saying that you think you're smarter than me?"

"Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm," I shook my head. "Does it look like there are are any sharp utensils on their table?" I asked Rick. He shook his head again.

Again, louder, "Are you? Is that what you're saying?"

'For the sake of your own life Boy, say no,' I thought, but he kept going; "I'm just saying your degree means nothing."

She exploded, "How can you say that to me? Do you know how insulting that is?"

Apparently, he did not, because he continued; Loudly, he said, "Degrees mean nothing. I'm a genius and I don't need a degree to prove it to anyone," How he got that out without laughing, I'll never know.

Rick and I were silent, waiting for the punch line: There was none. At one point when the young man had gotten really loud, I had turned casually in their direction to steal a quick glance. The young man was leaning on his elbows onto the table, taking up more than half of the surface. He was smiling an arrogant, coy smile at the girl in the midst of insulting her. Was this his come on to her, because he had this disconnected look, as though Don Juan had given him private lessons. I thought, maybe he's trying out some new-fashioned dating tactic, like what the military does with new recruits: Tear them down to build them up. Had he been a genius, as he claimed, his brain should have been exclaiming, "Retreat! Retreat!," but he continued to insult her.

Clearly, his physical looks had taken up the better of his time. He'd forgotten to enlist any of that effort on furthering his intelligence, or humility. Smartly, the girl had recoiled from him, arms folded tightly to her chest. She was pretty and diminutive, and her body language spoke volumes to that fact that this date was over.

"Do you think we should offer her a ride home?" I asked Rick, but before I could even get that question out, she shot up from the table and stormed out the back door. Slowly, stupidly the young man got up from his chair with a Cheshire-cat grin and followed, making sure to not break stride from his cocky, genius, slow swagger.

"I tell you now, if ever our son treated a girl like that I'd tackle him onto the ground and have to be hauled off by a S.W.A.T. team and a K9 unit."

Rick nodded, "He'd never," he said. "That's funny. I was thinking the same thing - how Austin would never think of doing something like that."

"And," I said, "if our girls sat through something like that for as long as that poor girl did, I'd tackle the boy to the ground and have to be hauled off by a S.W.A.T. team and a K9 unit." Rick nodded again and laughed.

I felt sorry for that girl. I mean, she gave this guy a chance, and somewhere in the process of being asked out by that guy and getting treated profoundly rude, he must have bamboozled her with kindness somewhere along the way. She was smart enough to leave him eventually, so I doubt that had she known from the start how it would have ended that she would have given him a chance at all.

What I learned that night on my sixteenth wedding anniversary from this young couple's troubled date was that there's just a few simple things about romantic relationships that are true across the board: First of all, everyone wants to be loved; Everyone wants to be treated with respect, and no one wants to be treated with haughty, superiority by their romantic partner, whether that person is just a momentary prospect of love, or a long-time companion. It's all stuff you know, but sometimes it's the stuff that becomes painfully obvious when you see it displayed to the contrary of what it should be.

In the same way we are to build our faith on something solid and lasting, we should also build our marital relationship on the things that last - the things that won't fade and give way to age, time, and difficulties: Jesus was speaking about faith when he said, "Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash" (Matthew 7:24-27).

For Rick and I the rain continues to come down, the streams have risen, and the winds blow still, but finally, after a couple of years of this blustery storm I am becoming thankful for the test. I know that "suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us" (Romans 5:3b-5).

Having miscarried six times in ten years, I know that I was never able to fully submit to God's authority until I was truly thankful for the testing of my faith: That is truly where you find your breaking point, and sometimes you just can't be fixed until you're fully broken. If you've ever tried gluing a broken piece of ceramic or porcelain you know what I mean. You can't really fix or glue the pieces if they're just cracked. The glue is clumpy and the very best you can do is to smear the glue across the fissure if the item is just cracked, but that's not a real fix. To fix it, you need to break the pieces apart, get the glue right along the broken edges, and then firmly hold them together until they're dry. For one thing, it's not a quick process, and sometimes, it gets a little messy, but oftentimes the outcome can be as good as new, and mean even more than if it had never been broken at all.

Give me Health Care or Give me....uh, well, nevermind

OK, I never thought my blog would get political, but then again, I never thought politics would get so "bloggy." "Bloggy" in this context means stupid, in case you were wondering. I don't even care who I offend, so as for my "friend" who told me that one time I was bitter, let me put out this disclaimer saying yes, I'm bitter. If bitterness offends you stop reading now.

OK, for us on a personal note, nothing has really changed. It reminds me of a time when I was a little girl. My mom had back problems and my dad would crack her back to relieve tension. I told her I wanted him I wanted him to crack my back. My mom asked if I had back pain and I said that my back had always felt that way. Maybe I had pain, but had just gotten used to living with it, so to answer her question, I didn't really know if I was experiencing pain.

It seems remotely painful what we're going through, but I've gotten so used to it, I'm not sure if it's painful, or if it's just life. I'm starting to be convinced that it's just life, which frankly, scares me. Last we heard, Mim and Cat still want to tour our building.

Let me say this, when we first took over the business, after paying way more than it was worth, we had to take Mim and Cat along to an industry convention to Phoenix. On that trip, which they convinced us they HAD to attend, we paid for all of their expenses. See, Mim told us they were doing us a favor by introducing us to all the industry "gurus." "Gurus," that's what Mim called all of these ancient, crackly old cronies.

So, in 110 degree Arizona heat, we unfolded to find Mim and Cat poolside, never looking more lively. In fact, it was as though Ponce de Leon entirely missed his search for the fountain of youth, and it was found by Mim and Cat in the form of a free trip with all the food and beverages you could consume, or shove into a white, polyurethane, leatherette purse.

Cat even seemed giddy at times, and at the hoe-down, she was cracking jokes and rubbing elbows with all the guru wives until Mim slapped his hand over her mouth, telling her to shut up. It was disturbing, and she almost cried. However, she was well on the road to recovery the next day when, leaving us behind to flounder by ourselves, they took a Jeep ride with some cronies across the desert landscape. Aside from being overheated, I was already simmering, since Rick and I paid for that Jeep ride. In fact, as they toured, rode, ate, wined, dined, took pony rides, had their pictures taken on Santa's lap, and relaxed, we paid for it all: They spared no expense to us at this proverbial fountain of youth.

While Rick and I stayed pretty close to the convention, waiting to garner the ever elusive key to our success, Mim and Cat partied like it was 1999. Cat started accounting for her energized, rejuvenated spirit, by saying that Arizona's arid climate made her feel alive and she wanted to move there. In my estimation, I think the devil is simply at home in the heat. Rick was pretty sure that the free stuff brought both Mim and Cat to life. All I know is that no one was sick, creaky, or had any lingering ailment that had previously been ever-present in California. Like an old lady wrought with rheumatoid arthritis who is suddenly healed by the sight of a jingling slot machine, oozing with hundreds of shiny silver coins, Cat was healed with bilking us at this desert oasis.

Well, today as I readied myself for my unemployment interview, my heart began to pound. I have never filed for unemployment before. I was nervous. Getting money for being unemployed bothers me, though Rick and I actually stopped taking salaries last October - that would be October 2008. We were trying to get this business out of a rough spot. You know, land it on drier ground. We were trying to weather the storm, which, with stupid optimism, we felt would pass any day.

So, when the lady called, because they will call you, you cannot call them, my heart was in my throat. She sounded friendly. I was encouraged. Then, I asked a question. "Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith, I am talking," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I could ask questions," I said. The way she yelled at me, you would have thought I had incited a riot, but I'd only asked if they'd gotten some paperwork I'd sent over a month ago. "I am talking right now, so no you cannot ask a question. I am conducting an interview. Do you understand that?"

Again, I apologized, because clearly we both knew who was in control of my situation, and it was not me. "I'm sorry, I thought this was a fluid conversation." "It is not. It is an interview. Do you understand what an interview is?" I nodded and said yes. She let me know that this interview and her approval or disapproval would determine whether or not I got unemployment benefits. She asked no more than four questions, and I could have sworn I heard a gavel and a "denied" stamp hit my paperwork on her side of the phone. I would know within ten days of our telephone interview, but I would need to e-mail any disputes, rather than call, because they are overloaded with telephone calls and the phones ring constantly busy.

Afterwards, I felt lame. Chloe asked what that call was about. I told her that the government takes our money to pay into unemployment. It is money they are supposed to set aside in case you become unemployed and need money until you find employment, like a government run temporary savings account until you can find a job and get paid again. It's a pretty simple system really, unless your government bilks you, bankrupting what you've paid to insure your unemployed times, or denying you for some unknown reason.

Seriously, I've applied, sent resumes and according to the County of Santa Clara, pursued a job they never even posted. I've never even gotten a call back, except for the Santa Clara County thing, which seemed more like a baffled, head-scratching inquiry than a callback. I will assume that a mom whose taken time off to raise her children is not the optimal employee, since you have as much as said in words unspoken, that your family comes first.

To clarify, I am teaching at the kids' school, but that's an unpaid position. God has allowed and disallowed certain things, and I know it's for a reason. I'm OK with that; however, I'm never good with getting bilked. I'm never good at being lied to. Unemployment is something we've paid into. It's something that is supposed to be there, because essentially it's our money. For whatever reason, our government convinced us that they could handle our money better than we could, should we ever have a rainy day, and stupidly, we believed them.

Now, they want to take care of our health care system, because our cutting edge health care isn't working for them...er, I mean for us. Health care is one third of our nation's economy and greedy government wants some of that. I love that they keep pointing to Europe, because whoever said we wanted to be like Europe? I didn't. I love our country and my health care, for which we pay plenty. I also love that this country was founded on Christian principles, though its been eliminated through historical revisionism.

The least "religious" of our founding fathers, Benjamin Franklin, insisted that they open in prayer every morning during the composition of the Constitution, lest they get distracted by God's plans for our country, but you never hear that. In fact, he told those at the Constitutional Convention, "In the beginning of the contest with Britain, when we were sensible of danger, we had daily prayers in this room for divine protection. Our prayers, sir, were heard; and they were graciously answered." He then went on to say, "I have lived, sir, a long time; and the longer I live the more convincing proofs I see of this truth -- that God governs in the affairs of men."

Benjamin Franklin was 81 when he gave that speech to the likes of George Washington, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Patrick Henry. Not one of the fifty five men at the convention dismissed Franklin's speech as the delusional ramblings of an old man, because they knew too that adherence to God had gotten them far.

Last week an elderly man openly opposed health care reform in a town hall meeting with Pete Stark. The elderly man quoted Judge Judy when he said,"Don't pee on my leg and then tell me it's raining." Pete Stark retorted: "I wouldn't dignify you by peeing on your leg. It wouldn't be worth wasting the urine."

Before that, Sheila Jackson responded to a cancer survivor's questions and opposition to health care reform in Houston: Representative Sheila Jackson got on her cell phone while the woman asked questions that would directly complicate care for her and her daughter, should their rare type of cancer reoccur.

See, the problem I have with this is the way they responded to the people they represent. These public servants - Stark and Jackson - were discrediting the very people they are supposed to represent. Different than Representative Joe Wilson's "You lie," outburst directed at the president, these public servants were censoring through public humiliation the people. They wanted to make clear that opposition will be dealt with accordingly.

Can you even imagine our forefathers acting out this way? Can you imagine? A government founded by irreverent, vulgar, disrespectful rouges? Frankly, when I heard that Joe Wilson yelled out, "You lie," I immediately thought of Patrick Henry. "Give me liberty or give me death." I suppose Joe Wilson kept his outburst to a simple two-liner, because insisting on death might easily be taken care of, given the fact that some czars believe in Sharia Law. I mean, someone could take care of that emphatic death plea, right?

All I know is that our country is completely out of whack. The government is making huge sweeps to take what is not theirs. They have taken what's yours and mine, and lied about what they're doing with it. The same way Mim and Cat deceived us, the government has done the same. They have told us that if we paid them in the form of taxes, unemployment insurance, ecetera, that they would take care of us. Now, they want to "help" us with our health. Can you even imagine?

With the money I've paid into unemployment I can't even get a live person on the telephone. I am chastised like a toddler pulling the hair out of the family cat when I ask questions, and it's up to the discernment of a rude woman who couldn't care less about me, as to whether I get unemployment pay or not. Seriously, if Benjamin Franklin were alive today, he'd have already been given the "Your Life - Your Choices" handbook, because let's be serious...81 is old.

Working for the Man

Aaaah, Saturdays. I love Saturdays. I know Sunday is the day of rest, technically, but Saturday is the day of "Do-Whatever-I-Feel-Like," so with that, Rick and I mish-mash around and putter around the house like a couple of old people until we finally find our purpose. We kiss in the kitchen in front of the kids, to hear them say how gross it is, and see Sophie hide behind her opened fingers to watch us. Usually, I will admit, we never find our purpose. We poke at the kids. We dance to embarrass them. We yell at them to go out and play, and we yell at them to stop fighting once they've finally gone outside to play, and we watch Mandy, the twelve year old dog, through the gray hue of the window screens to make sure she's still alive while she's sleeping.

So, that has been our day, and Mandy is still alive, so it's a good day. Actually, for whatever reason, and maybe for no reason at all, things have been blissfully good lately. We haven't heard from Mim and Cat. I don't know what they're doing, but we've heard they've been in and out of surgeries and on vacations. I don't care, as long as they're not up in my business. I mean, I really hope that they're having lots of unnecessary plastic surgery. It's an unreal hope, but one can dream and fantasize. I mean, wouldn't that be fun to see? I once worked for a guy, maybe the craziest man on the entire planet and he had lots of plastic surgery. It was as though, through various botched surgeries, he got just what he deserved.

One day, he came into work with dark sunglasses and a baseball cap, and proceeded to act as though everything was normal. I mean, this was a miserably small office of just three people, so we were bound to notice, right? When all was said and done, he had hair plugs coming right out the front of his forehead where no hair had ever grown, naturally. I was afraid he was going to poke my eye out with those. They were coarse, like rust colored copper wires jutting out straight over his eyes like the visor on a cap. His eyes were suddenly slanted upward at the corners, like he had a coy little secret that he would never know, or share.

His hair was now this coppery red color. It seemed as though he had tried to dye it from its natural dark brown color to blond, and maybe while he sat in the beautician's chair, he saw someone else across the salon who made him question his manhood with his plastic shower cap elastic digging into his skin, and the ring of cotton stretched around his forehead to keep the blond hair dye out of his eyes. I'll assume he probably saw a man, a man like he wanted to be, like the multitude of construction workers in our building he was constantly comparing himself to. He would oftentimes stand at my desk, flexing non-existent muscles under bright purple and teal silk shirts, and ask if I could tell he'd been working out. I would always nod, and in his heavy turquoise jewelry, he would always say suspiciously, clinking a chunky ornate pinky ring on my desk, "Really? Really, you can tell? You're not just saying that, are you?" Of course I was just saying that, because being honest to Sherman was not an option.

I had seen him yell at the top of his lungs that his beautiful wife was an idiot and stupid, because she told him she liked a certain wall color rather than one he had chosen. "Stupid! You're just stupid," he yelled. "I mean, do you even know anything? Why are you so stupid?" He asked her, incredulous. Then, he stormed off leaving her standing in the lobby in front of the watching timid staff, while his wife tried to smile away his scathing insults.

I knew too that Sherman was a tenacious personal injury attorney that, when challenged at any level, would fight a dirty street fight like no one had ever seen. When his building got "tagged" by some school kids, he went to the school. For two weeks, he rearranged court dates and times to stand outside that nearby junior high. In his pimp-styled duds, he pursued kids that appeared to look, in any way, disreputable in comparison to the herds of other kids. After following and leering at middle schoolers, he finally found his target: A thirteen year old girl leaving the campus had the same scribblings on a tattered notebook that had been spray-painted on Sherman's building. Taunting her with his new found information, he followed her nearly a quarter of a mile in his lime green alligator shoes. Getting her address and finally coaxing some information out of the scared teen, he eventually got enough information to sue the girl's mother: It was a landmark case. Though the single mother pleaded with Sherman to have mercy on her, he would not budge. He said she was trash and needed to be taught a lesson. He was scary on many levels. He could not have been more pleased with himself.

On a personal level, he wasn't much kinder. When it was Sherman's birthday, he had told our little staff of three exactly what to get him: Having seen his numerous tantrums before when he didn't get what he wanted, we made sure to get him exactly what he wanted. With the identical item he asked for wrapped in shiny paper and looped with a big silver bow, he smiled: "I can't imagine what might be in here." 'Really,' I thought. 'You told us exactly what to get you. I can hardly wait to see how a crazy person acts surprised.'I would never know though, because though Sherman told us exactly what palm pilot to get him, the technology had just upgraded days before -- something we all should have known, had we not all been so flipping stupid! He took one look at the palm pilot that cost proportionally more than I made, gave a disgusted shake of his head, exuded some heavy puffs of disgust from his fleshy white effeminate body, said absolutely nothing, and left the room. For the rest of the day, and probably into the night, he holed up in his office contemplating whether we should all be fired or beheaded. The next day the over-priced palm pilot still sat on the conference table atop the pretty wrapping paper.

So, I suspected that this wholly unnatural reddish-orange hair color was a result of some erratic paranoid eruption wherein he thought someone looked at him oddly, and in his heightened paranoia, he threw off the white towel draped around his neck and insisted that he hairdresser wash out the hair dye in the midst of his venomous insults toward a beautician, he would ultimately leave in tears. He was like that. Always vacillating from one erratic decision to another, or rather, one erratic explosion to another.

His wife was a beautiful kind and stately woman -- a former fashion model. She had quietly apologized for an insinuated drug problem with Sherman, which would have explained much. Let's just say this, I've worked for some crazy people. I've been abandoned in New York City during the outpouring of Rodney King riots, which led to all of Fifth Avenue being boarded up with plywood. At Central Station we were warned that police cars had been tipped over and were on fire. Trying to get back to our hotel, the shouts of, "Hey, white girl!" were unnerving, and during that scenario, I had a lock, more like a boot on a car, attached to my hotel door at the Sheraton Towers, because the owner of our company skipped town without paying our bill.

I've also had my aura read to see if I had the ability to be a good salesperson, but I think I threw off the reading by my internal doubt and outward sarcasm. I don't know if they read my cynicism though, because the owner of the company also had her past lives read during my aura reading, and in her jubilation of finding that she had been a cowboy in her past life, and in all probability married to her own daughter, she was in a celebratory mood to have her love of southwestern art finally validated and know that it meant more than she initially thought.

I've also worked for a band of highly creative individuals at one of the largest connectivity companies in California. On an up note, we actually had Chris Isaac perform at our Christmas party - very cool. On the not-so-cool side, I ended up joining a baking club within the company, founded by a man who appeared to have a crush on me, played guitar in a rainbow crocheted beret at lunch on the grass out front, and got pretty upset when he found that I'd been married for two years -- something I had hoped Rick's picture on my desk, incessant newlywed talk about Rick, and wedding ring would have made clear. I think he honestly thought this character "Rick" was my cat. Eventually, it was the anger that boiled under that little rainbow cap that encouraged me to bow out of the baking group, and allowed me to realize that that little liberal man couldn't have pegged me more inaccurately. I don't know what vision he had had about the two of us singing on the lawn in from of our mega employer, but he could not have been more off.

Nine months after turning down a legitimate job to be employed in Sherman's office and hearing incessant death threats come across for Sherman on our office answering machine, I found myself one morning standing over his desk after he accused me of feigning illness to go on a hot-air balloon ride through Napa Valley, something I've still never done. With all of his ridiculous insults and accusations, I fired off, "You are the most pathetic little man I have ever met in my entire life!" I fumbled to take his office keys out of my purse and threw them onto the floor, "And, if you want those keys, go get em!" I stormed out, crying.

In the typical comfort I can only receive from those who understand me, my uncle sent a bouquet of flowers two months later on Secretary's Day with the inscription that read: "Michelle, I want you back. Love, Sherman." I nearly fainted until I realized the joke, since nothing was beyond the erratic undulations of Sherman.

Though not always clear, I realize that work is a blessing, really. When you think about it, it's one of the first things God gave Adam in the Garden of Eden. It is key to the completion of our human souls, though so many try to avoid it. It says in Genesis 2:16 that "The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it." I suppose since it was the Garden of Eden, it was more pleasant than any place I've ever worked, but still, it was work. I know there is something strangely satisfying when I've worked, done well, and have something to show for my work. I also know that sin has made most of what God initiated such pale shadows of the initial blessings. Somehow, we still have to find the blessing God intended for us.

Recently I started teaching History and Science to second graders. I have told Rick numerous times before that I would never want to teach. I teach our own children, but in doing so, I don't have to worry about parent complaints, unless of course, I become schizophrenic. In all seriousness though, it's not the kids I worry about, its the parents. Not that parents are difficult on their own, but every parent has their own individual idea of what their own child should learn, as well as who their individual child is -- reasons we homeschool. I am seeing beyond that though.

I know that we've worked like crazy these last few years, trying to stake claim to what we thought God had put before us in this business, to find the fields wrought with boulders, never-ending thistles, and no return for our efforts. It's been exhausting like I've never known. Can I tell you this? In the middle of trying to get this one little blog done, while I teach now two days a week and homeschool the other days, we got an e-mail from our attorney. He told us that Mim and Cat still want to walk through our office building. Really, when I read that e-mail, my heart stopped like a big rock stuck right in the middle of my chest. I had almost forgotten the full scope of what we've got before us.

I know this for certain though, work is still satisfying and good when someone evil isn't trying to distort the word of God for their own gain. I know that God is with us, even before us, in things that are too big for us. Even as we are still in the midst of something that is difficult, I am thankful that God has allowed me the refreshing reprieve of teaching these sweet little ones that so greatly reveal His greatness, even in a world full of evil. There is much the world can impose, but there is little the world can really take away from me when my eyes are continually focused heavenward.

Proverbs 12:14 "From the fruit of his lips a man is filled with good things as surely as the work of his hands reward him."

Peace in a Massage Chair

OK, I haven't written anything in a while, but do I have some dreamy ideas of things to write. You know, things that have been piling up in my head. Right now, though I am getting ready for the new school year, as I sure many people are. This year is different though, because on top of home-schooling my own cherubs, I'll be teaching at their home-school school twice a week. I'll be teaching second grade, which I think is pretty safe, since generally second graders still like adults: Also, I've known very few to carry knives, belong to gangs, or run over their teachers in the darkness of a dimly lit parking lot.

I have to be honest, I'm a little scared to teach at this school, even though it does appear to be a gang-free campus. The school abides by the Classical Educational approach, and they specifically teach per the Greek Trivium and Quadrivium. Have I lost you yet? Well, let me just say that there are three schools within the school: The School of Grammar, The School of Logic, and the School of Rhetoric. There is no School of Hard Knocks, like the one I made my thirteen year old son put on his Facebook profile, just in case a stalker tried to find him in his real circle of activity.

All I know is that the kids will be taking Latin, and when I mentioned that I was fluent in, and had nearly thirty years conversational experience in Pig Latin, the young gentleman who had just finished a tour of Rome after his graduate studies in Latin at Stanford appeared stymied, and asked me what Pig Latin was. Given his illustrious resume, I was perplexed how that never came up in a graduate course.

Anyhoo, I suspect this year will bring many learning experiences for me, as well as my fellow faculty members. I can hardly wait! I don't really have any stories or anecdotes about my new adventure, though I'm sure they'll come. I do enjoy everyone there, and they are unbelievably nice, generous, and helpful, so it should be more fun than I can even imagine. I look forward to those anticipated blessings.

In regards to anticipated blessings, I am reminded of a recent unanticipated blessing with the kiddies. It was one Saturday, I think, that Tracey, our neighbor, unexpectedly took all three of the kids to the mall. Let me say this, when we get that kind of a break from the kids, it is as though we have boarded a luxury cruiser set sail for the Bahamas. The sun shines more brightly. The birds sing just a little more clearly, and when I gaze at Rick, I am not wondering why he isn't folding clothes along with me, or vacuuming the hallway, I just see a twenty-two year old boy I fell in love with.

Let me be clear, it's not like we anguish to spend time with our kids. Heck, I even like spending time with their friends, but just like a dear friend who sits between you and your honey at the movie theater, there are times when three is a crowd. So, though we love and adore our children, we are so seldom apart from them, and a little break is like a dream vacation wherein I am not bound to the servitude of anyone. I don't make any food. I don't fold a towel, or any clothing items, and I forget completely how to clean. I suddenly become inexplicably sleepy, lazy, and remiss in doing one single thing for anyone, much like when I was in high school.

So, as the kids prepared to leave I slipped Sophie -- of all people -- twenty dollars. She was to keep it tucked inside the zipper compartment of her little purple butterfly purse. The money was in case they stopped to get something to eat, as I believe that Tracey's generosity should never be taken for granted. They were to offer to pay for themselves, even if she insisted on paying. "That," I told them, "was the right thing to do," though Austin tried to convince me that getting a new XBox game was the better thing to do.

Hours later when they returned, Rick and I listened as they told us about their time at the mall, their meal with Tracey, her husband, Tracy, and their son, Tyler (yes, Tracey's husband's name is Tracy. I did not make a mistake). They told us about their blizzard, super-sized ice-creams, and all the things they wanted at the mall. Then, I asked the question that begged to be asked, "Do I have any change?" Knowing Tracey well enough to know she would never allow the kids to pay for themselves, I fully expected Sophie to plop down on the desk in front of me the same crisp twenty dollar bill I'd given her hours earlier, but instead she handed me one crinkled dollar bill and some change.

Then, as if someone had shaken a can of soda that was ready to explode, Sophie said, "And, we got you something. We got you a gift."

"What?" I asked. "You bought me a gift? Really?" The dollar and change was suddenly clear. They had used my money to buy me a gift. I would have pointed out the irony of it all, but they were all three so excited.

"Yep," Austin chimed in. "We got you something you will really like..."

"Really, really like," Chloe emphasized, and Austin handed me a card with "Mom" written on the envelop in cursive.

I looked up at their excited faces, and poked my finger in the crease of the envelop to rip it open. "Wow, that's so nice," I said. I pulled from the white envelop a white card with a colorful orange and yellow flower. Inside the card each one had written their own thank-you messages, thanking me for being their mom and doing everything for them to make their lives special. If that wasn't enough, there was a gift certificate for a fifteen minute chair massage at a massage shop in the mall. "Wow, you guys are so thoughtful. How sweet of you." I pulled each one into my lap and gave them a kiss and a tight squeeze. "Thank you so much for thinking of me."

Now, with the busyness of the coming days I eventually poked that card with its sweet words, and gift behind some things on our office desk. I had really forgotten all about it, as days passed until one day I was saying to Chloe that I was tired, and she turned to me and said, "Well, we are trying you know."

"Trying what?" I asked.

"Trying to give you a break, but you won't take it. We got you that massage and you haven't even used it." In typical Chloe form, she threw her arms up in dramatic alarm and frustration, but enough for me to get her point. She was right. With that, I knew that just like planning anything important, I would have to plan to take that break they had offered me. Sometimes I guess it's just like that when you become far more comfortable in busyness and hectic circumstances. Just like Job, I had gotten used to the tone of my thoughts, which were, "I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil" (Job 3:26).

With the coming Saturday, we planned on my fifteen minute chair massage. The kids were thrilled. Walking through the mall, we found the "So Relaxed" massage shop. I still don't know if the lady understood English, but with sufficient hand signals, and my waving the pink gift certificate around, she seemed to finally understand and motioned me to an ergonomic back massage chair right in front of the storefront window.

Sophie, our six year old, was particularly giddy. She told the lady that she had bought me the gift certificate, and as I leaned over in the chair, Sophie hunched down under my face to make sure I was, indeed, relaxed. "You relaxed?" she asked. I smiled, my face taut through the little whole in the chair and tried to nod my obvious relaxation. She darted off into the mall to Rick and Austin sitting on a nearby bench. "She's relaxed." I heard her exclaim - mission accomplished!

Eventually the massage began, though it became fairly obvious soon after its initiation that the "masseuse" was either opposed to gaining proper knowledge about the art of massage, or she hated me. I'll assume that since she smiled a lot and did not appear to spit on my head during the scalp massage portion, she was simply inadequately trained.

At one point, the massage left the back region altogether, and she began hitting the sides of my thighs. At one point, I felt sorry for the woman. Perhaps she'd always wondered if women with big thighs could just beat them into submission and she was just now, testing out that ill-conceived theory. 'No, if you hit them, they will not shrink. I know, I've tried that since I was ten years old and they are still there!' Eventually, as though giving up, she stopped. 'Thank you, God. I mean, we know those babies aren't going anywhere, and now she does too, right?'

I hoped she'd make her way to my shoulders, but this back massage was now moving due north to my head. The unfortunate thing about that was that I had let my hair air dry. It was in curly mode with the help of some curling mousse, and if she kept squeezing and floundering around up there, my hair would be in a blond Afro that would make getting back to the car excruciating. If Rick even looked at me sideways, I would freak out, since oftentimes when my hair goes into a life of its own, he will say, "Do not touch your hair. Just slowly move toward the mirror and check out how huge your hair is. Really, it's amazing!"

Sophie flitted in again, and hunched down under my face, "Still relaxed?" I smiled and she went back to Rick and Austin to give another report. "She's still relaxed!" How long will this last? Fifteen minutes is a long time to be plucked at. I heard some women assessing my massage through the storefront window. "Looks good," said one. 'Wow, OK, well it doesn't look like the mess that it is. That's good.'

I knew the massage was nearly over when the woman started grasping my appendages and schwooping down them quickly, letting out a quick little breath. I'd seen this method used on our free tree when the tree-hugger finally said goodbye. It is a method to get rid of bad energy - trust me. I live in California. I know. With a few quick schwoops we were done, and because I'm really lame and afraid of people hating me, I tipped her bad massage.

I stuffed a few dollar bills into a glass jar, patted down my over-sized white girl fro and found Rick and the kids sitting on a nearby wooden bench in the mall. I must have looked relaxed, like I'd just woken up with my over-sized puffy hair, because the kids were thrilled by my appearance. They came quickly to me with big wide smiles, and warm sweet hugs. "Oh, you guys are so great," I said. They each seemed to nod, as though they knew. "Thank you for thinking of me."

Really, life is more often like that than we realize: How often does God really offer me a rest or reprieve, only to hear me say I don't have time, or complain about how that short reprieve from my normal busyness will be more bothersome than it's worth? And, though I did not get rest in the traditional sense of the word from my little fifteen minute massage, I know that I rest and find peace in my children's love for me, just as I know I can rest and find peace in an Almighty and awesome God.

Matthew 11:28 "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Neighborly Blessings

There were a few things I thought of, looking back at some blogs. First of all, let me say that this summer was the most surreal summer on record for the Smith's to date. We have never had such a strange summer, though not entirely bad. For instance, not all our interaction with our neighbors was bad: We have two neighbors, specifically, that made our summer wonderful and memorable.

I don't want to mention any names, but one neighbor has been such a Godsend. She and her husband were prayed for and prayed for upon the completion of their home. The little 980 square foot home that had sat on their lot was demolished to make the most gorgeous home, and when it went up for sale, we just prayed and prayed that someone more kind than the contractor would move in. See, the contractor had been a bully who I caught one day with a chainsaw at the ready to cut down our lemon tree, and an old crooked oak in our backyard. He had torn down the fence while we were out, and concluded that those two trees were encroaching on his newly built home. Fortunately, those two trees are protected by some tree-hugging California laws, and were saved.

Can I just say this, as a brief aside? One time we had a free tree planted in our front yard by a city program called, "Our City Forest." The woman who came out to plant that tree did, indeed, hug it and whisper sweet nothin's to that tree before she finally let go and drove away. In fact, at one point, it got so bizarre and intimate (if you know what I mean), I pulled the kids away to give she and the tree some alone time together. Then, before budget cuts hindered her from proceeding, she mailed us update requests continually for 18 months that mandated a written response back to her, lest she come and remove the tree. We had to name that tree, give mandated updates as to its progress, and it was suggested that we talk to it as often as possible. Let me say this, when you show me the ears on a tree that's when I'll start talking to it: Otherwise, I stay pretty mum around the foliage.

The other thing that was spared when the contractor-neighbor decided to sell the house, rather than live in it, was my sanity. So, being a diligent prayer warrior, I prayed for someone kind to move in, preferably someone like-minded and easy to get along with, that had no penchant for cutting down our trees. Just a few months later, our lovely new neighbors moved in with their sweet, and sometimes precocious two dogs - more like children than dogs, really, aside from the fact that Sadie barks at planes and Sophie is obsessed with chasing squirrels.

Being nosy, our Sophie dragged an old wooden ladder across the yard and propped it up on the fence separating our yards. Tracey laughed that her "Wilson" would visit her over the fence every day, asking questions and revealing much, always wondering if Tracey could play. That is how a friendship started. That was the beginning of many blessings.

And, what a blessing and answer to prayer it has been. OK, I cannot help it, I have to say her name....Tracey became such an angel to our children. She has them over, bakes with them, plays games with them, and takes them places. She made a beautiful Creative Memories album with them for Christmas last year! She is incessantly generous with her time and thoughtfulness. I mean, who does that? And, she is a constant source of sweet encouragement to me. Really, an answer to prayer, though she may never know how much.

Then, just as we were are about to wear Tracey out, the Zyuzin's came back from Russia. I could make up their names too, but it's so much mental power that I'm not sure I could muster it. Playing professional hockey in Russia for most of the year, we only get the Zyuzin experience 4 months out of the year.

This year, the kids all seemed to be at a level that finally had them playing together, which made it easier to get to know the whole family. So nice. I think just one story adequately exemplifies the Zyuzin experience: Just two days before they left to go back to Russia this year, Teresa invited us to go with them to dinner. "A small gathering, just to say good-bye." Sounded fun, and we were definitely going to miss the excitement they had brought with them, so of course we went. While waiting for our table, the host walked up and said, "Teresa, party of 40." That was the small gathering! Forty people! With effortless aplomb, Teresa generously hosted that, and several other gatherings, without any air of complexity or bother, just kindness and warmth.

I can't deny it, our summer has also been filled with some definite weirdness: Swingers, nudists, swarms of birds that would rival anything Alfred Hitchcock imagined, and a probable home of squirrel torture.

We found a fallen baby crow in the front yard one day. With the kids in tow, nothing is left alone to die a natural death. When we find injured animals we never walk away. Instead, we look for the first spare shoe box, and an old stained towel. At some point, I will think that neither of those items will have purposeful use in my home, but for now, they sustain (for a short time) any precariously injured animal found within a two block radius of our home.

We scooped that disgusting bird into a box, as its parents dive-bombed me the entire way to the backyard. At one point, as they squawked and cawed, I had Austin get a broom to protect us, and sent the girls and the dog into the house. Almost without notice, it seemed instantly that 30 - 50 more birds appeared, cawing loudly and swooping in on us. At the moment we were trying to make the ugly little bird a safe place away from possible predators, I looked over my shoulder to the west and saw no less than 100 black crows coming in toward our home. They were in large V-shaped flocks, several. Frankly, I didn't even know that crows collected in flocks. There are some things you don't learn in Avian Sciences. Austin was using that broom like a propeller to keep the birds from making contact with our heads.

Finally, we got the ugly little bird into a blue, plastic wading pool on top of the dog run. As I was lifting it up over my head, I recalled how Jane was offered to King Kong as a sacrifice, and hoped that the birds would be pleased with our efforts to save their ugly baby. What I've learned is that crows are difficult to please. Mandy, our twelve year old dog, has also learned that it is difficult to do a number of things in the vicinity of angry crows.

That same day, Andrei, the professional hockey player across the street found a wayward hummingbird in his garage. What made us all think that Andrei could GENTLY scoot the fragile little bird out of the garage with a broom is beyond me. With one good hit to its little body, it dropped like a rock onto the roof of his car: A good shot for a puck, a dismal shot for a tender feathered creature, weighing no more than a few ounces. Fortunately, there was an empty shoebox and old towel to accommodate the seemingly dead bird. Smiling, Andrei handed it to Austin, as I gave him a look of, "I'll get you for this," and Austin skipped away toward our home, delighted to have another injured animal in our shoebox hospital ward. At that, we mused, "Isn't it dead, anyway?" Well, sometimes dead things make the best pets. Remember pet rocks? Maybe Austin wouldn't notice for a few days, I thought.

Persistently, the kids kept poking at that little hummingbird, feeding it every half hour, if not more. With the crow, we gave it water and dog food. The crows seem to like dog food, so why not start this one young? Besides, I was not going to grub around for worms or any other unsavory bug. Remember, picking around in the dry baked ground conclusively accounts for a bad day, and I don't go looking for bad days.

Just two days in our care, one bird lived and began to thrive, and the other died, feet up to the sky, flies swarming around its ugly black carcass. Eventually, Tracey and I took the hummingbird to a bird sanctuary where there is surprisingly, one designated hummingbird expert, waiting for hummingbird drop-offs, so she can enthusiastically drive the little birds to her personal home and aid them back to health. Just something about that girl...she was not some crazy looking bird lady. She was beautiful and fit, like she had devoted her life to just two things: Being beautiful and fit, and taking care of hummingbirds. I wondered to Tracey aloud, "Do you think she just runs marathons every day and cares for birds? How else does one get so blooming fit and tan?"

Well, in both cases - fitness and bird care - she seemed to be doing a stellar job. Weeks after our drop off, the kids called to get a physical assessment of "Bird," the hummingbird, and they found that she was healing quite well, and would be released back into nature within the month. Frankly, Bird is still bait for hungry hawks, but at least she got a chance to live with super model bird lady for a while.

I don't know and I don't care how the ugly crow was disposed of. I had to send Rick to do that dirty job. I mean, there were flies hovering around it! Gross! Eventually, the mother and father crows stopped dive-bombing us, but it took days for them to give up. It was kind of sad. Maybe just instincts told them to hang on, but isn't that just the deal? Those crows did what they are instinctively instructed to do - care for their young.

Our neighbors have put more thought into their treatment of us than just crow instinct, but it is as if God has gifted them with amazing hospitality skills: Opening their hearts to us through kindness, warmth, sensitivity, generosity, and thoughtfulness. Just being themselves has brought such great blessings to us, and in lieu of everything else that has gone on this summer, it is a thing I like to meditate on most.

Philippians 4:8 "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things."